


marvel ficbit odds + ends

by andibeth82



Category: Captain America (Movies), Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel 616, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Captain America: The Winter Soldier Spoilers, Christmas Fluff, Deaf Clint Barton, Domestic Fluff, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Ficlet, Halloween, Mission Fic, Multi, Post-Avengers (2012), Prompt Fill, Vacation, Vignette, Weapons Kink
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-05-31
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-01-27 19:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 25
Words: 12,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1719899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andibeth82/pseuds/andibeth82
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Avengers related ficlets/drabbles originally written on <a href="http://isjustprogress.tumblr.com">tumblr</a> (and maybe livejournal) and compiled here. (Mostly un beta'ed, all remaining mistakes my own.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. clint/natasha :: where i will rest

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr TFLN meme: Clint/Natasha, **(361): He had an extremely smooth butt for a man with such rough hands.**

"You have rough hands," she tells him in the lingering vestiges of her Russian lilt, lips curling scornfully as she examines the callouses dotting his skin, the pads of her thumb drawing circles over the places where his flesh feels like sandpaper and old age and everything she knows the rest of his body is not. It’s the first night of the first time that they’re officially allowed off the grid together, the first time they’re trusted to attend to each other outside of the walls of a workplace that keeps an otherwise close watch on their movements and their conversations, the first time she feels she truly breaks down a wall when he laughs sardonically, pulling away from her touch.

"That’s what happens when you never miss."

Natasha nods, shifting her weight on the scratchy blankets of the hotel bed as the first lights of a silver dawn starts to bleed through the small windows, an awakening that seems to help drain the tension that darkness has brought between them in the wake of discussing mundane things like _how many men did you kill_ and _what did you tell them before you slit their throat_ and _why was I spared._

“My hands have been unmade, too,” she says pointedly, turning her palms up as she meets his eyes, wordlessly explaining what her mouth can’t seem to say. Clint looks away as the ache in his chest spreads to somewhere around his heart, a feeling of fingers as small and delicate as the ones in front of him squeezing a little too hard at the place where it should be so much easier to breathe.

 

***

 

 _Abidjan is the worst place for an extraction_ Natasha thinks as they climb into the small bed, goosebumps meeting goosebumps and legs criss-crossing in a mangled rendering of tic-tac-toe. It’s child’s play, all of it, right down to the minimal food and the barely working comms and the red on his shoulder, the wounds that bleeds onto her own when they press their bodies together, an attempt at cultivating whatever warmth they can salvage.

His breath against her neck is a steady pulse, a matching heartbeat, a reminder as steady as the bullets that ricocheted off their shelter of crumbling rubble not an hour earlier, the painful scream of shots fired from metal pistols still a hollow ache in her ears. She exhales onto his skin, counting the languid spaces between the air that pushes through their lungs, a one-two-three of acceptance as his hands move over her body, fingers catching the wet blood of what will be newly formed scars and traveling their way over older ones, the hardened crescents and jagged lines that map a lifetime of debts paid and lives saved and redemption achieved. She laughs at the contrast, at the fact that while her skin is riddled with novel length stories of mutilation, his is smooth and (mostly) pure.

"What do you want?" Clint asks quietly as Natasha moves her fingers down his back, feeling for free and whole and complete, feeling for soft and new and clean.

"To be made," she whispers against his skin, her words lost in the storm that rages outside, his lips on her mouth and her name on his tongue.


	2. tony/pepper :: mistletoes + garlands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr TFLN meme: Tony/Pepper **(512): So when's a good time this week to show up at your apartment in nothing but a trench coat and a bow? Y'know. Hypothetically.**

"…and three extra platters of sandwiches, and when the caterers arrive they need to be told to bring the trays to the back of the Tower, because the freight elevator has been acting up since we started renovations…" Pepper kicks off her heels as she pushes open the door to the apartment, one hand bracing itself against the knob as she precariously balances her phone against her left ear.

"I’ve taken care of it," Maria responds curtly, cutting her off before Pepper has a chance to continue. "Relax. Go home, get some sleep. I know you like to be the superwoman of Stark Industries, but this party is nothing compared to what you’ve had to deal with lately."

Pepper breathes out slowly, feeling the curve of a smile start over her lips before she remembers that the other woman can’t visualize her reaction. “Thanks,” she replies gratefully, kicking off her heels and depositing her bag on the floor.

"Like I said - get some sleep. And tell Stark to stop listening in on my calls, will you?"

"He - Tony," she starts warningly in the wake of the soft click as Maria hangs up her end of the line. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Just checking to see if you made it home okay," he responds, a slight edge to his voice that causes the resulting words to come out somewhat distracted - a tone that could be classified as strange, but to Pepper, might as well be the most normal sound in the world.

"Holiday driving brings out all sort of crazy in Manhattan."

"Yes. And I’m fine," she answers sharply. "And if you wanted to track my whereabouts, you should have sent me home with one of your bots."

"Fair enough." He pauses. "So when’s a good time this week to show up at your apartment in nothing but a trench coat and a bow?"

"Tony." She presses her lips together, counting the seconds before continuing. "It’s Christmas."

"Like I said, when’s a good time this week to show up at your apartment in nothing but a trench coat and a bow? Y’know. Hypothetically."

Pepper rubs a hand across her eyes. “It’s late. I’m tired, I had to -“

"Too slow, I’m coming up."

"Tony!" She tosses the phone to the couch without bothering to end the call, whirling around as the door swings inward, allowing him to step forward with a grin.

"Merry Christmas?"

Pepper shakes her head, meeting his eyes, the quirk in his lips an undeniable challenge that she accepts, feeling her own split apart. “I can’t believe you.”

"A giant rabbit, a wormhole, a Nazi organization corrupting our government systems, tell me, after everything we’ve been through, how is me showing up at your apartment after work considered unbelievable?"

"Because we live together," Pepper replies pointedly, walking over to close the door. "And when I need a night off to work from the apartment that you’ve so graciously let me keep all these years, I don’t expect you to come bang down my door ten minutes after I leave."

He shrugs, clearly undeterred. “Hill told me you had left, I wanted to make sure I said goodbye.”

Pepper stares at him. “I thought you said you wanted to make sure I got home okay.”

"That too."

She shakes her head, hiding a grin. “And you couldn’t have just called? Used the video chat feature? Told Hill since I was already talking with her?”

Tony grins again. “I thought you’d realize by now I prefer to conduct my business in person,” he replies, wrapping his arms around her body and kissing her lightly.


	3. clint/natasha :: the long way down

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr TFLN meme: Clint/Natasha, **(541): I just fell off a roof. So I'm kinda chillin for a minute.**

"Shit… _shit_.”

Natasha grabs for the blade hidden inside the folds of her boot as she feels the tight grip of fingers around her right shoulder, pulling her back against the wall before she has a chance to properly wrap her own hands around her weapon.

"Fuck - Barton!" she grunts as her back hits the hard slab of concrete. Channeling momentum despite the ache in her body, she propels one leg forward, meeting the man’s impending punch and knocking his left arm sideways. The move gives her enough leverage to kick her other leg forward and as she pushes off the wall, she closes both thighs around her attacker’s neck, pulling forward and flipping him back onto the floor.

Hydra. It could’ve been anything, it could’ve been anyone, and it _had_ to be Hydra, and Jake, the fucking recruit she had trained not seven months ago, whose bones she was now breaking with absolutely no remorse.

"Barton," Natasha bites out again, shoving her comm to her mouth and using one hand to wipe away the trail of blood she feels running down the side of her face. "Barton, report."

She calculates the wait time in her head without really thinking about it, her mind fixating on silence and static, and feels her heart jump somewhere up by her throat. If Hydra had managed to infiltrate her when she had every corner covered, they most certainly could have done the same with him.

"Barton," she repeats, her voice rising urgently, and almost immediately his hoarse tenor floods into her eardrums.

"Nat."

Natasha lets out a breath she hasn’t realized she’s been holding, feeling the tension drain from her limbs as she pushes through the mess of prone bodies littering the floor in front of her. “Where the hell are you?”

There’s another long silence, and when Clint speaks again, she can tell that he’s trying to hide the embarrassment creeping into his tone.

"I just fell off a roof. So I’m kinda chillin for a minute."

"You -" Natasha pauses, stopping in her tracks. "What?"

"Yeah." Clint makes a noise, and she recognizes the sound of slight pain as he most likely finds an injury he hasn’t realized he’s sustained. "Outside, about two blocks over. Where I was stationed. Couple of guys cornered me and I thought I had the right arrow in my quiver but it turned out to be a smoke screen arrow, not a grappling hook."

"How in god’s name…" Natasha trails off with a sigh. "Nevermind. Just stay where you are."

"Couldn’t go anywhere even if I wanted to," he mutters, and when she finally makes her way to the corner of the street she finds him half lying on his side, his spine contorted towards his bow, which is lying on the ground next to him.

"Construction broke my fall," he says weakly, gesturing to the now broken tarps above his head as she drops to her knees in front of him. "So that worked out. Did I mention that it sucks we don’t have an extraction team anymore?"

"You know, Barton. One of these days, I’m going to kill you." Natasha’s voice is quiet as she moves her hands over his face and arms, trying her best to ascertain any wounds he might have missed in his initial assessment, and Clint smiles.

"One of these days, huh?"

She shakes her head, gently helps him to his feet, and hands him his bow.


	4. clint/natasha :: we're in this together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr TFLN meme: Clint/Natasha, **(903): All I've done today is make sangria and wonder what the hell I'm doing with my life.**

The day that Clint comes back, with a knock and a shameful gaze and a sad smile, Natasha’s calendar reads four days after his birthday and three weeks after the Helicarriers have fallen into the Potomac. She opens the door and stares silently, arms crossed in silent judgement.

"SHIELD’s infiltrated."

"I know."

"It took a fucking _regime_ takedown for you to return,” she continues, her voice flat. He looks down helplessly.

"I know."

"You have a fucking lot to make up for, Barton."

Clint sighs.

"I know."

 

***

 

"I went to California," he admits after he settles himself in, curling up on the couch in the space he’s used to occupying. "After I heard the news. Wasn’t sure it was safe to come back, didn’t trust my channels, so I figured I’d hide out there for a few days and get my bearings."

"A few days." Natasha’s voice is still flat when she speaks. "And you couldn’t contact me and let me know?"

"I told you. I didn’t trust my channels."

Natasha frowns. “That’s never stopped you before,” she says slowly, almost sadly. “You’ve been able to contact me when we’ve had bugs on our trail in the past.”

"Yeah, but...I don’t know. This was different," Clint says carefully with a shrug. He picks up a pillow, pressing it to his face, and Natasha sighs again.

"Where the hell have you been, Barton? Everything’s different."

 

***

 

Two weeks after Clint returns, Natasha gives in to her body’s not so subtle hints and doesn’t get out of bed until at least noon, sleeping off stress and anxiety and bad nightmares and everything else that she’s let accumulate since she walked out of a press conference and into a jungle of bright flashes and overwhelming crowds. Clint has been getting up at hours earlier than he ever has in any previous lifetime, taking long runs under the guise of early morning darkness, and has already showered and dressed by the time she makes her way to the kitchen.

"So you can still cook," she observes as he sprays a pan and cracks an egg, watching as the yellow goo sizzles into a bright puffy circle. Clint rolls his eyes.

"All I’ve done today is make sangria and wonder what the hell I’m doing with my life."

"Living," Natasha says pointedly, sliding into the chair. "Which is a hell of a thing to be thankful for, considering I just dumped all of our identities into the trenches of the world wide web."

He sighs, poking at the still-cooking egg with a little too much force. “I guess,” he replies, and she doesn’t miss the trepidation, the fear masking itself as frustration in his tone.

"Clint."

It’s a statement, a comfort, a reminder of normalcy as she slides off the chair and comes up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist. “I promise, we’ll rebuild. I’m not going to let them win.”

She kisses him lightly on the neck, placing her head against his back, her palms finding purchase against his chest as his heart beats solidly behind her hand.


	5. clint/natasha :: the morning after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For **hjea's** prompt in [this Tumblr meme](http://isjustprogress.tumblr.com/post/81435148582/enigma731-intosnarkness-timestamp-meme-give): the morning after [Widow's Line](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1294888).

When Clint opens his eyes, he has to adjust them first to the room that seems too bright for early morning and then to the fact that he’s not sure where most of his clothes are. For a moment, he panics with the thought that he’s unknowingly gone on some sort of bender - and one that would have Natasha on his back for days - until he realizes that the body pressing into his stomach _is_ Natasha, her red hair spilling over the pillow like blood, one arm draped over his leg. Freezing slightly, he uses the silence to take stock of the situation, unearthing words and actions from the previous night that are still buried within the recesses of his brain.

_I think we have some weaponry to work on._

"Where are you going, Barton?" Natasha’s words are lost in her pillow, but he understands enough to shake his head in response, rolling over.

"Nowhere," he replies hoarsely. "Though I imagine we’re late for briefings by now."

"It’s Tuesday," Natasha mutters back. "No briefings on Tuesdays." She sits up, the covers falling to reveal her bare chest and he feels his breath catch in his throat at the sight. Natasha raises an eyebrow.

"If this is what it takes to get you out of bed in the morning, maybe we should have sex more often," she continues dryly, watching the way his face changes at her words.

"That was…I mean…" He swallows. "You enjoyed it?"

"Our practice session?" She snorts quietly. "Yes, Barton. I very much enjoyed it. And you did, too," she adds pointedly. "In fact, I was thinking maybe we should make it a weekly regimen."

He chuckles slightly at that, easing back down onto the bed as she follows his lead. Pillowing his head into her arm, he closes his eyes while two slender fingers snake their way down the side of his face.

"What are you doing?"

Clint shrugs, leaning into her a little more deeply. “Just thinking.”

"About your arrows?"

"About you," he returns quietly, not bothering to return the joke in full, feeling her hand still as he says the words. He opens his eyes, looking up to meet her own questioning gaze, her pupils clouded by something he can’t quite classify. After another long moment, Natasha lets out a sigh.

"We missed breakfast, you know."

Clint nods slowly. “I know.”

"And there’s no briefing today."

"You said that before." He shivers as her hand starts to work its way across his skin again, her head sinking in line with his ear.

"And I think I have more weapons that need tinkering…"

Clint lets his lips fold into a smile as her lips close over his skin.


	6. clint/kate :: this looks bad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr meme: **intrikate88** asked for Clint/Kate, snowed in somewhere with no technology. Well, this kind of fits the prompt.

_Okay. This looks bad._

Clint gives himself a little credit when he comes to that conclusion, because he can actually tell something’s wrong, and he doesn’t have to let his brain fully materialize into consciousness to realize it, and he doesn’t have to ask Kate and have her yell at him…well, mostly because Kate is already yelling at him, although for once it’s not actually _at_ him, it’s more at the general area of the completely deserted warehouse where they’ve apparently been deposited and, according to the lingering taste on Clint’s tongue, drugged.

“Stupid goddamn asshole tracksuit mafia idiots SPIKING MY DAMN ORANGE JUICE!”

Clint groans, turning himself over on the ground and slowly opening one eye. “Calm yourself, Katie-Kate.”

“Calm myself? Clint, have you actually _looked_ at what those assholes did to us?”

Okay, well, maybe he didn’t deserve that medal for being entirely astute yet, because he hadn’t woken up enough to fully realize why his left wrist felt heavy, and sore, and why his entire left side felt a little weightier than usual. He looks down, his eyes falling onto the silver bangle hooked around one wrist, and he follows the trail of the short chain to where it’s attached to another wrist, this one slimmer, more delicate, and adorned with two purple wrist ties.

Clint groans again, although this time for an entirely different reason.

“Awww, handcuffs, no.”

“I’m getting out,” Kate declares almost instantly, pushing herself forward. Her movement jerks Clint to the side, and he very nearly gets dragged across the floor with her momentum.

“Jesus, can you watch where the hell you’re going? That’s my damn bow arm!”

“How are you gonna shoot a bow when you’re handcuffed to me for the rest of your life, dummy?” Kate snarks, sitting back on her heels. “Lucky for you, _my_ bow arm remains free, which should help us immensely.”

“Yeah, but your other arm is pretty much out of commission until we get these things off,” Clint points out with a small sigh. “And no offense, Katie, but I didn’t exactly leave the circus to learn how to become some new one armed act.”

“Oh, whatever,” Kate responds with a roll of her eyes, rolling forward on her legs and plopping to the ground. “We’ll strategize, then. There’s gotta be a way out of here.” She chews the skin of her bottom lip, squeezing one eye shut in concentration, as if she’s sitting on his couch playing one of his video games.

“Can we figure that out before, you know, I gotta pee or something?” Clint asks, squirming slightly. “Cause this whole thing is really unfortunate.”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Kate says, exasperated. “I’ll close my damn eyes if you’re that much of a wuss. At least you can go standing up. In case you haven’t noticed…” She gestures to her chest and then to her lower half, and Clint looks away, slightly uncomfortable.

“Why’d it have to be handcuffs?”

“What?” Kate raises an eyebrow. “You’ve never been handcuffed to a woman before?”

“Kate.” Clint moves his head to one side, raising an eyebrow back. “I was _married_.”

“Fine. So then I get to ask Bobbi next time what happened when you were having sex with handcuffs and you had to go to the bathroom,” Kate replies nonchalantly. Clint sighs.

“Please don’t.”

“No, I think I will. If we actually get out of here,” she adds, muttering under her breath. Clint looks around, trying to figure out if there’s anything that can function as a lock pick, or for that matter, something that could possibly break them apart. Coming up with nothing, he turns a frustrated glance back to his partner.

“What happens once we get out of this room?”

“Once we get out of this room?” Kate grins, a wicked smile spreading over her features as she starts jiggling the handcuffs. “I’m gonna ask for some lessons about how to be kinky in bed. But first, I’m gonna kick some tracksuit mafia ass.”


	7. tony/pepper :: promises to keep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For **notplatoniccircumstances** , who prompted the following: _Tony/Pepper: Pepper knew the third glass of wine was probably a bad idea, but it was her only defense against the boring speech - and Tony's feet continuing to cross over to her side of the table._

_You owe me_ , she thinks more to herself than him, but knows that he doesn’t miss the eyebrow raise and the silent sentiment hidden in her look when he catches her eye after the third time his legs meet her heel.

_I bet,_  he smirks silently in response, with a leer that on anyone else would probably warrant a slap. Pepper rolls her eyes instead, downing the rest of her wine.

_Don’t even._

"We could ditch this and go to Ben’s," she hears him mutter under his breath, and Pepper feels her lips rise ever so slightly against her will.

"We are _not_ getting Ben’s Chili” she shoots back, her lips barely parting. “I don’t care how long this speech is.” She turns her attention back to Senator Stern, who is now going on about some environmental legislation that Pepper thinks she should probably pay attention to, but at the moment, she’s too bored to care.

"Is the newest CEO of Stark Industries tuning out a very important press conference?" Tony asks as he leans over, his lips brushing against her neck as he casually pretends to fix the back of her dress with an air of practiced ease. She feels her breath catch in her throat and moves her eyes forward to avoid turning in his direction.

"The newest CEO of Stark Industries is about to make her former boss wish he had never given up his privileges," Pepper replies, standing to clap as the speech finally reaches an end. Tony follows suit, straightening his tie, and when they sit back down his fingers automatically find hers underneath the table.


	8. clint/natasha :: lipstick secrets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for **hjea** : _"#i still want to write a fic about clint discovering all of natasha's spy jewelry aka weapons of mass destruction" You realize the list of fics I can't wait for you to write is longer than most actual fics, yes?_

Clint finds out about Natasha’s secret stash of weapons the same way most other people do, except he’s got the reflexes of an archer who chooses never to miss and as a result, he’s slightly more prepared than an enemy might be.

(Actually, to be honest, he just gets lucky because nearly being numbed by a damn tranquilizer dart was the last thing he expected when he curiously turned over a shade of dark red lipstick.)

“Are you insane?”

He’s first annoyed, then embarrassed by his response, the reaction directed more at the offending object than his partner. Natasha pivots, her face impassively neutral.

“I see you found my lipstick.”

“That’s an understatement,” Clint grumbles. “I also almost lost my finger.” He flings the capsule onto the bed and watches it land softly on the covers, rubbing a hand over his neck. With furrowed brows, he takes in how her fingers deftly fly in and out of the small black purse, long cases of multicolored eye shadow and blush palettes taking up residence among another container that Clint suspects is more than just lip color. Natasha chooses this one carefully, sticking it into the front pocket with a flourish.

“Jesus, Tasha, I thought I knew all your hiding places. Where did you get all this stuff?”

Natasha looks up through a curtain of freshly cut curls, the grin that snakes over her face almost entirely reminiscent of the one she gave him the first time they met, on a catwalk in Russia, while she dangled 200 feet above and taunted him to just let her fall.

“Now, what kind of spy would I be if I kept all my weapons in one place?”


	9. clint/natasha :: library dates + coffee dates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For **narcissamalfoy** , who prompted _Clintasha: dystopian or college AU_

She’s got a habit.

Clint Barton would hardly call himself an overly conscious student. And really, the only reason he’s even in the library to begin with is because it’s a last ditch effort to see if his brain might work better when not surrounded by his roommate’s loud music and robotic tinkering that more often than not ended up destroying at least one of Clint’s shirts, not to mention most of his pens.

But she’s got a habit, and he only realizes it when he places his books on a table that he assumes is empty, picking up a half-filled Starbucks cup that looks mysteriously abandoned.

“That’s mine,” the redhead says, snatching the cup out of his hand before he has a chance to react, huffing out an angry breath as she gathers what he couldn’t quite see before, her satchel and jacket hidden behind a pile of books that look too thick to be anything remotely interesting. Clint blinks in surprise, throwing up his hands in surrender.

“Sorry,” he says, nodding in her direction. “Table seemed empty.”

“Did my coffee cup seem empty?” she asks and he shifts his gaze, shoving his hands into his pockets as he looks around at the other students, all of who are hunkered down over books and binders and laptop computers.

“What finals are you studying for?”

She makes a frustrated noise, like engaging in his conversation is the last thing she wants to do, but he also notices that she doesn’t exactly ignore him.

“History,” she says finally, eyeing his armful of books. “And you?”

“Literature. Uh, British literature, to be exact,” he adds at her eyebrow raise. “Not going to make fun of me for liking Shakespeare or something, are you?”

She frowns slightly. “No,” she replies, shaking her head. “I took a Brit Lit class last year. The final wasn’t too bad, a lot of essay writing – but if you understand the plot points of all the major works in the syllabus, you should be fine.”

He nods, thinking of the half-written flash cards in his pocket, and smiles slightly as he extends his free hand.

“Clint.”

She doesn’t quite smile back but returns the sentiment, albeit a bit hesitantly as she bites down on her lower lip.

“Natasha.”

“Thanks for the help.”

“Yeah.” She looks a little surprised at his words, and this time, he notices the smile is a little bigger. “Anytime.”

She gathers the rest of her things and moves to a cubicle at the other end of the room, and Clint sits down at the previously occupied table, cracking open his books.

 

***

 

She’s got a habit, and he realizes it when he ends up behind her in line at Starbucks, when he’s running late to his own class because he’s overslept. He clears his throat, figuring it’s a slightly less invasive greeting than stealing her cup unintentionally, but when she doesn’t seem to hear him he gives up on trying to be polite.

“Hey, you.”

That causes her to startle and she shakes out her red curls, looking up from her phone screen.

“Hey.” She looks confused, and then, he notices a bit thankfully, pleased. “What are you doing here?”

Clint shrugs. “Free country. Free campus.” He motions to the line, and has to stop himself from matching the grin that starts to spread across her face.

“Guess so,” she replies, shifting her bag on her shoulder. They approach the counter together and he manages to catch a glance of her student ID card as she fishes it out from between the folds of her black wallet.

“Romanova?”

“Romanoff,” she snaps a bit harshly, tucking the card into her pocket almost instantly and accepting her coffee. He expects that to be the end of it except she doesn’t leave, instead lingering behind him as he waits to take his place at the front of the line.

“So how did your exam go?”

“Oh. Uh.” Clint runs a hand through his hair as he scans the menu options, before handing over his own card to the cashier.  “I didn’t have it yet, actually. It’s not til the end of the week.”

Natasha nods, taking a sip of coffee. “Well, like I said – just study the major works, and you’ll be fine.” She moves away as he grabs his drink, shoving a few crumpled dollar bills down into his pocket along with his ID.

“What about you?” he asks as they make their way through the crowded student center. “Your final?”

“Tomorrow,” she says with a small sigh, turning to face him. “My roommate – she’s nice, but she likes to stay up late working on her science projects and it’s hard to concentrate sometimes. Hence the coffee.”

“Mmm. Sounds familiar,” Clint says almost automatically, swallowing down a large gulp of caffeine. “Except mine stays up late building robots that make a lot of noise.”

“Robots, huh?” Natasha gives him a wry smile. “So you’re the lucky one that got stuck with the Stark kid?”

“I don’t know if I’d call it lucky. Guy never sleeps,  _and_  my shirts are all ruined.”

“Well.” Natasha shrugs a little carelessly. “Jane never sleeps either. At this rate, I’ll probably end up in the library til late again.”

“Yeah?” Clint asks slowly, unsure if he’s supposed to take the invitation the way it seems to come across, and Natasha cocks her head slightly, one half of her mouth tugging upwards.

“Yeah,” she says a little slyly before turning away, and he watches her descend into the throng of students hurrying between classes, his own grin prominent across his lips.

 

***

 

After classes end for the day, Clint returns to Starbucks and orders a venti vanilla latte, with skim milk and a hint of caramel and an extra shot. He brings it to the common area of the library, along with his own grande Americano, and sits down across from her.

She accepts her drink without a word, but there’s gratefulness in her eyes, and kindness in the way she shoves her book across the table, offering him an opening into her life.

She’s got a habit, and so does he.

And he realizes he kind of likes it.

 


	10. pepper/maria :: a girl's day out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For **phrenitis** who asked: _Pepper Potts and Maria Hill...anything, really._

"I can’t believe I’m doing this," Maria mutters more to herself than her companion, stepping out of the car. Pepper kills the engine on the silver Audi, furrowing her brow as she follows.  
  
"Going to a winery?"  
  
Maria turns around. “Taking a vacation. Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve had a vacation? One that hasn’t been forced upon me by aliens or a government assassination?”  
  
Pepper cracks a smile. “First of all, to phrase it correctly, it’s not a vacation. It’s a getaway. Call it a gift from Stark Industries for all your hard work.”  
  
"You sound like Romanoff," Hill says grudgingly as she pulls on her sunglasses. "Always trying to put a spin on things."  
  
"So do you," Pepper responds, throwing the car keys over her shoulder, and Maria catches them one-handed without thinking, pulling her lips together.  
  
"So where exactly are we going?"  
  
"Stark has a good relationship with a couple of wineries in the Napa area," Pepper explains, starting to walk. "And since we’re technically not allowed to drink on the job when we need it, I thought we might take advantage of them."  
  
"Mmm. And what’s your excuse for taking the day off, if you’re telling me this is a gift?"  
  
"Because." Pepper turns, fixing her gaze on the other woman. "It’s been far too long since I’ve worked with someone who I’ve felt I can spend time with outside of the office."  
  
Maria raises an eyebrow at that, before chuckling dryly.  
  
"Well, you’re a better date than Fury," she responds finally, and Pepper offers a lopsided smile.  
  
"I’ll take that as a compliment."


	11. clint/natasha :: take me as i am

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For **enigma731** and the tumblr prompt meme: _unzip me_

The first time she asks, her voice is hoarse from disuse and her arms are as thin as the rails that he’s extracted her from behind, her filthy clothing caked with mud and dirt and other things Clint doesn’t want to think about hanging off her tiny frame while her eyes examine his face, wide with vulnerability, with fear and exhaustion and defeat.

"Undress me," she says and as he puts his hand on her back, gently lifting the soiled dress over her head, noticing for the first time how her body shakes underneath him, the bones of her spine a thick armor against his skin. He helps her into the S.H.I.E.L.D.-issued hospital scrubs and lifts her at the knees, cradling her body against his chest as he moves slowly out of the wrecked room, trailing sloppy red footprints of her past in his wake.

-

"Undress me," she says firmly, and her voice is balancing on the fence of something that sounds both commanding and terrified, and when he looks up he can’t help but smile. She fills out the black uniform better than he had expected, her red hair a stain of color against the hard leather, the small hourglass resting securely at her middle, but there’s a tremor to her stance that doesn’t quite match up with the confidence her image is portraying. Clint takes off his glasses and gets up, putting both hands on her shoulders and unzips the front of the suit carefully as she maneuvers her body out of the leather, disappearing into the bathroom of her quarters before he can attempt to talk.

-

He takes her home from the hospital four days after surgery and even with a busted up arm that’s been broken in three different places he still hesitates, keeps one hand on the small of her back as she climbs the stairs of his walk-up but doesn’t make a move to be any more helpful as she walks inside. 

For being one-handed, she handles food and drink okay, but showering is by far the worst - she refuses help and locks herself in the bathroom with the running water, and he counts the minutes until fifteen after the hour before getting up and knocking on the door.

"Natasha?"

There’s no immediate answer, and all rationality flies out the window as he shoulders himself against the door, breaking in easily and stepping into the sauna-like bathroom.

"Natasha?"

"Undress me," comes a small voice from the corner and Clint sighs, drops to his knees where she’s sitting against the tub, angling her shirt off her body and removing her pants before helping her to stand up. His teeshirt is damp against his back and her hair is starting to curl at the ends and he knows she’s going to tell him to leave but he holds her anyway, sharp fingers dancing their way down her bare back, until he feels her relax underneath his grip and can assure himself that she’s going to be okay.

-

"Undress me," she growls, clawing at his shirt, pulling it down so that she can suck at his collarbone, and he pushes her own shirt over her head while struggling to unclasp the hooks of her bra. Natasha groans into his skin before she finds his mouth, her hands scraping through his hair as his own tug at the waistband of her jeans, and he shoves her against the living room wall while her fingernails draw a map of possession on the back of his neck, marking their territory in sharp, red strokes. 

-

When Clint steps off the private jet in the middle of a barren, forgotten airfield in the middle of nowhere, Texas, she’s the last person he expects to see among a haze of brown and red and desert gold. She meets him halfway across and doesn’t speak, simply takes his hand and accompanies him back to the standard black car that’s waiting at the edge of the field, and they drive in silence until they get to the small safehouse where she’s set up shop for the time being.

"Undress me."

They’re barely inside with the lights still off when she asks, and he looks over at her as he drops his bag, his eyes wordlessly asking what his mouth doesn’t say. Strong hands, shaking hands lift the shirt over her head, his breath stilling in his lungs when he sees the flash of silver sitting around her neck, stark against her white, partially bruised skin and flash of light in the dark.

"You were only supposed to wear that until I came back," he says when he finds his voice, and Natasha nods, taking his hands and guiding them to the back of her neck.

"I know," she says, meeting his eyes as his fingers unhook the necklace. "And you came back." She catches the small arrow in her palm as she leans up to kiss him, the first step to rebuilding, to remaking, to starting over in a world that seems hellbent in its determination to tear them apart.


	12. bucky/natasha :: just grab my hand and run

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for **magpieandwhale** and the tumblr prompt meme: _"Join Me," with MCU, obvs. Nat? Bucky?_

He materializes like a shadow, like a mirage in a world where no sleep and no food conspire to make even the sharpest mind go dull around the edges, like a ghost made out of grey fragile dreams and wavering, glittering lines of real and not real.

She’s missed her check-in by two seconds, paid for it by taking a shot to the stomach, and her hands are stained with the same color that she’s recently dyed her hair, a ruddy crimson that leaks from a hole in her side, spilling onto the pavement of the dirty street. Surviving this -  _if_  she survives this - will most certainly be a black mark on her record, a week of torture and lessons that leave her limbs raw and her throat dry, and there’s a part of her that wonders if it would almost be better to bleed out here in the middle of nowhere, a mission unfinished, a life continuously fragmented.

They have called him the asset. They have called him a monster. They have called her those things, too, but when they speak of her they do not speak in whispers as they do with him, as if he is a figment of imagination, an angel of death reserved for times like these when he collects those who have fallen, who are damaged, who are broken and who cannot make themselves rise.

The metal hand reaches out and curls around her arm, lifting her upright, and then she’s no longer bleeding into the ground but into bright silver, red staining the outline of a bloodshot mark in the shape of a star.

-

She wakes in pain, naked and shaking with a white bandage wrapped tightly around her middle, in an unfamiliar bed with unfamiliar surroundings and sits up slowly, drawing a blanket up around her chest while letting her eyes focus in the dark like she’s been trained to do, like she’s been made to do. He’s hunched over, a blemish in an otherwise dark space, the silver of his arm a glassy sparkle against the oppressing black.

"Chernaya Vdova," he intones barely audibly, turning as she adjusts her gaze. "You have not failed me."

There is a voice, but she cannot find it. There is a question, but she cannot ask it, and so she envelopes herself in growing silence until she feels she can speak.

"What do you want?"

"What do  _you_  want?” the soldier returns, and she squares her jaw, snapping into alertness, defiant and determined all at once.

"What are you offering?"

The soldier’s smile grows, sharp white teeth a gleaming match against his tarnished arm.

"A life, Natalia. Another life."


	13. clint/natasha :: child's play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for **hjea** and the tumblr prompt meme: _assassins and "where the fuck did that clown come from?"_

Natasha’s pretty sure she’s seen everything -  _everything_  - because Clint is Clint, and because Clint’s more or less open about his life, and because whatever he hasn’t told her she’s made it her business to know over their partnership. So she knows about his three-day bender in Iraq, and the time that he brought the girl from Legal back to his quarters after the S.H.I.E.L.D. Christmas party his first year, and she knows that as much as he’ll deny otherwise, he likes wearing mismatched socks because that’s what he used to do with his brother.

"Come on, Nat. Live a little."

"Live a little." Natasha drops the file she’s been holding and it cascades to the living room floor, spilling its contents in various directions. "We could live a little by going back to Jakarta."

"You and I have very different opinions of what it means to take things less seriously," Clint says with an eyebrow raise, watching as Lucky pads into the room, sniffing suspiciously at the scattered papers. Natasha rolls her eyes.

"I am  _not_  going to Fury to have him sign off on a trip to the Midwest so you can go to a state fair and call it a vacation,” she says flatly. ”And where the fuck did that clown come from?”

"That?" Clint looks down, seemingly unconcerned. "Oh. Upstairs neighbor gave it to me last weekend…Lucky’s new favorite toy."

Natasha makes a face, watching as the yellow lab gnaws on a clump of red hair. “Your dog eats pizza and plays with a clown doll.”

"And yours is named ‘bad luck,’" Clint replies without missing a beat. "So I’d say we’re pretty much even."

Natasha meets his eyes, trying to suppress the grin she knows is spreading across her face, and lowers herself to the couch.

"You know that Hill’s going to hate this, right?"

Clint grins, joining her on the couch, and bumps his shoulder lightly against hers.

"Now you sound like you."


	14. clint/natasha :: this is not my job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for **fidesangelus** and the tumblr prompt meme: _assassins and "I think you missed your calling."_
> 
> **(Pure baby fluff. Apologies.)**

Natasha hears the voice behind the doors of the elevator before they even open, which sends her senses into overdrive and cause her head to snap up in surprise.

“This is not what it looks like,” the voice says as it gets closer, its soft tone mingling with the unmistakable giggle of a quiet baby gurgle. Natasha straightens up.

“Really?” She lifts an eyebrow, impossibly calm. “Because it looks like you brought our daughter to my work.  _My_  work,” she adds pointedly, with a harsh look. Clint shrugs, and Natasha takes a deep breath, counting to five in her head.

“Can I see you in the conference room for a moment?” She asks more kindly than she thinks he deserves, motioning professionally as she turns away. Clint follows, closing the door behind her, and Natasha does a quick sweep of the room before ripping the small microphone from inside the cuff of her suit.

“What the  _actual_  hell?” She hisses angrily when she’s finally sure they’re alone - at least, as alone as they can be, given the circumstances. Clint shrugs again.

“She missed you,” he replies almost helplessly and Natasha sighs, rubbing the heel of her palm against her eye.

“Clint, I miss her, too. But this job isn’t exactly take your daughter to work day.”

“Well, I can’t exactly take her to  _my_  work,” he retorts, shifting his grip on the baby that seems insistent to crawl out of his arms. “Last time I brought her to the training center, she tried to eat all my arrowheads.”

“She’s your child, she’s not all right in the head sometimes,” Natasha snaps back, picking up papers. “Come on. We work for a top-level security organization. Can’t you get Hill or someone put her in day care?”

“Hell, no!” Clint looks horrified. “That’s a last resort. I’ve seen the kids that crawl around that day care, and no way am I subjecting our child to someone who might take her toys.”

Natasha closes her eyes. “Look,” she says, pressing her palm against the table. “I really,  _really_  do not have time for this. We’re about to get a break in this case and if I screw it up after a week of having to put on this goddamn suit and smiling at lawyers every day, I’ll never forgive you.”

“So you propose what, taking her home to cry?”

“No,” Natasha replies with the same voice that she uses on recruits who are testing her patience levels. “Take her to the cafeteria. Or the park. Or find something. And when I’m  _home_  later…” She pauses, shooting him another glare before continuing. “When I’m home later, we’ll talk about this.”

“I think you missed your calling,” Clint says as he nods towards his arms, watching the baby’s limbs start to thrash wildly in Natasha’s direction. “She never acts like this when I’m around.”

Natasha pushes her lips together as she steps close enough to run her fingers over the small surface of her daughter’s head, before shoving her gently back into the safety of Clint’s grasp.

“I’m going to come home later and give her the attention she needs,” she says, ignoring his remark as she points him towards the door. “And then, I’m going to kill you.”


	15. clint/natasha :: and i'm always right here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for **un-canadien-errant** , who prompted: _Clint/Natasha, "I'll never unsee that"?_
> 
> (Set during Iron Man 2.)

Clint’s in the middle of doing inventory on his arrows (one trick, three regular, two grappling hook, one incendiary) when the phone rings, and he ends up leaning against the flimsy wire-frame bed with the cell phone wedged between his shoulder and his right ear.

"Anytime Stark would like to get his head out of his ass and realize that not all of us can wait around while he figures his shit out, that would be great."

Clint winces at the tone of her voice while squinting at the travel clock on the floor, the digital blue numbers burning holes through his retinas as he tries to focus.

"Jesus, Nat. What time is it there?"

"Almost 3," she says, stifling a yawn on the other end of the phone. "I would’ve called earlier but I figured you were indisposed."

"Nah, just me and my arrows," he says, grabbing his quiver from the floor. "Lead was a bust today. Sitwell’s supposed to send me more coordinates tomorrow, but if they can’t pin down the base of these operations, it looks like I’ll be stuck here for awhile." He sucks in a breath, feeling the chill of the air against his teeth. "Fucking Latvia."

"You used to like Latvia," Natasha points out, sounding a little more awake, and Clint groans.

"I was being nice. It was where we met and I thought you’d take to me better if I had fond memories of this place."

"Yes, because I wasn’t already going to think you were strange for finding an assassination attempt romantic," Natasha says dryly, before pausing. "You could be in Los Angeles."

"And be living undercover in a luxury apartment stocked with all of Coulson’s favorite foods while following around a billionaire?" Clint glances up at the walls of the decrepit safe house. "Please tell me again why you’re complaining."

"I almost walked in on Stark having a threesome with two women who looked like they could be on the cover of the most erotic Sports Illustrated," Natasha returns. "And then I very nearly got myself killed at his own birthday when he trashed the place."

"Seriously?" Clint mutters, rubbing a hand over his eyes as she finishes talking. "Come on. Now I’ll never unsee that."

"And if you think that’s bad, think about how you only know him from the media," Natasha continues, an edge to her voice. Clint sighs.

"Alright, fine. So we’ve established that both our current assignments suck to the point of us actually wanting to go back to the bullpen, except we’re both stuck here for the foreseeable future against our own will."

"Kind of," Natasha says, and he can hear her shuffling papers. "Coulson told me he may be able to pull you out of there as soon as next week, he’s got a detail he wants you to take that’s more important."

"More important?" Clint asks curiously, perking up slightly.

"Yeah. Something about New Mexico? I don’t know, it’s not really anything I’m supposed to be concerned with right now."

"Huh." Clint purses his lips. "Well, whatever it is, it can’t be any worse than chasing down useless leads and spending nights in a place that doesn’t even have running water."

"Or dressing up in corporate clothing and babysitting a man with emotional baggage," Natasha says with a hint of mirth.

"According to you, I also have emotional baggage."

"You do," Natasha replies without missing a beat. "But I don’t babysit you. And I like you."

"Yeah, that’s why you haven’t shot me yet," Clint says, shifting on the floor, and he swears he can see her smile over the phone.

"You know I can’t promise that I won’t be waiting in your quarters with a gun when you get back, right?"

Clint grins, shoving the rest of the arrows into the quiver.

"Miss you too, Agent Romanoff."


	16. clint/kate :: of black cats and yellow dogs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for **shenshen77** , for the be_compromised trick-or-treat comment fic-a-thon.

Clint Barton is in the middle of shoveling the last of his Chinese food into his mouth when the knock interrupts him, and he pushes back his chair just as Lucky streaks by with overexcited barking.  
  
"Hey!" Kate's voice filters out from somewhere behind him, and Clint turns in time to see one purple foot as the rest of her limps into the room. "I'm not finished with you yet!"  
  
"Apparently, he's finished with you," Clint says as he watches her slowly make her way across the kitchen, a blue mask clutched in her right hand. "And weren't you supposed to stay off that ankle?"  
  
"I don't know, ask the dumbass who decided to use "jumping off the roof" as part of their extraction plan," Kate responds with a glare. Clint winces internally.  
  
"You're never going to let me live this down, are you?"  
  
"Why do you think you got to be dressed as the most boring guy from Dog Cops?" She asks smugly, before pausing. "Hey! Lucky! LUCKY!"  
  
Clint sighs as he moves out of the kitchen, shoving the dog's face away as he slides off the lock, coming face-to-face with the eyebrow raise of Natasha Romanoff and a scowling black cat.  
  
"Trick or treat?" Clint asks with about as much mirth as he can muster. Natasha sighs, holding up a plastic bag.  
  
"One Snickers, one Three Musketeers, one Milky Way," Natasha says, swinging the bag in front of his face. "And nothing is fun-size."  
  
Clint smiles, taking the bag from her outstretched hand. "Simone's kids are going to love you. Last year, they all yelled at me."  
  
"They should have," Natasha says, crossing her arms. "Who gives out fun-sized candy on Halloween? If it was me, I would've murdered you."  
  
Clint ignores the comment as Natasha walks past him, staring at her clothes. "Did you seriously wear your tac suit as a Halloween costume?"  
  
Natasha shrugs. "So?"  
  
"So, Halloween is about real costumes!" He glances down to the ball of fur prowling around by her feet. "And I don't even see Liho dressed up."  
  
Natasha snorts. "She's a black cat, I think that's costume enough. Hey, Kate."  
  
The brunette grunts in response, too focused on fitting a tight mask over Lucky's head. "Finally," she mutters, sitting back and rolling to the side to avoid putting pressure on her ankle. "Hey, Nat."  
  
Natasha stares at Lucky, before looking up again.  
  
"You dressed your dog as  _Captain America_?"  
  
"Aw, come on," Clint says, motioning to the large "A" on Lucky's back. "He'd make a great Avenger!"


	17. clint/natasha :: not my kind of holiday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for **cloud_atlas** , for the be_compromised trick-or-treat comment fic-a-thon.

When Clint emerges from the elevator bank, he finds her sitting alone in the corner of the hospital cafeteria swirling a cold cup of coffee in one hand, a half eaten pastry lying lonelily on a napkin in the middle of the table.   
  
"Okay, next time when I say I want to try to hang decorations on my ceiling, let me have Tony fly up and do the honors," Clint says, dropping down into the seat across from her. "Or at least let me check my ladder beforehand and make sure it's not 100 years old."  
  
She doesn't answer, and Clint frowns. "Hey, come on," he chides, cracking a small smile. "Just bruises and scrapes. It's not even anything they need to give me medication for, so by Medical's standards, I'm totally, completely ten thousand percent fine. I think."  
  
Natasha sighs, lifting her eyes and shoving the cup away. "It's not that," she says finally, her voice soft. Clint furrows his brow.  
  
"So what is it?"  
  
Natasha hesitates, looking a little embarrassed. "It's nothing. Really. It's just...dumb."  
  
"Nothing is dumb," Clint offers gently, reaching across the table and putting his hand over her wrist. Natasha manages a smile, before pulling her arms away.  
  
"I'm not really big into this whole Halloween thing."  
  
"No, really?" Clint asks with mock joking, and Natasha glares.   
  
"Really," she replies flatly. "All this wearing costumes and giving out candy and going out? Special Halloween drinks and food and parties?"  
  
Clint shrugs. "Part of the American tradition," he says. "And I know you're not generally fond of spending time with random people, but that can't be why you're sitting here looking like someone just told you there's no Santa Claus."  
  
Natasha sighs. "Everyone dresses up," she repeats. "Pretends they're something they're not. They get to dress as witches or animals or baseball players and I..." she trails off and Clint feels a lump form in his throat as understanding dawns on him. He reaches forward again without thinking, entwining their fingers.  
  
"I've dressed up my whole life," she continues softly. "I've been so many different people, and never by choice. I've been pretending and wearing masks for as long as I can remember. And I have to stand by and watch other people do it for  _fun_." She smiles a little sadly and Clint gets up, pulling at her hand.  
  
"Come on," he says when she's finally standing. "We're going home."  
  
"To greet trick-or-treaters?" she asks a little miserably, and Clint tightens his grip on her arm as he draws her to him.  
  
"No. Kate's going to greet trick or treaters at my place. We're going to go back to your apartment and watch really scary movies and order take-out, and you're going to rank all the stupid costumes I've had over the years and tell me which one I deserved the most grief for." He smiles. "That a good way to spend Halloween?"  
  
Natasha smiles back and nods into his arm and Clint leads them out of the cafeteria together, one hand wrapped around her waist.


	18. clint/natasha :: search party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for **geckoholic** , for the be_compromised trick-or-treat comment fic-a-thon.

"Nat?" Clint swallows down the sleep in his voice and answers the phone on the third ring, squinting at the bedside clock.  
  
"Clint."   
  
"Nat?" He shoots up in bed, suddenly more alert at the sound of her voice. "What's up?"  
  
"I..." She stops, and he hears her breathe over the phone. "Liho's missing."  
  
Clint opens his mouth to respond and then thinks better of it, because  _how can you be upset that your cat is gone, you don't even technically own her_  is something that he instinctively knows he shouldn't say. "Maybe she went trick or treating," he suggests instead, and he can almost hear Natasha roll her eyes.  
  
"If this was Lucky, you would be calling me and begging for some trackers or one of my toys so you could find him."  
  
"Look, she's a cat," Clint says as gently as he can. "Who hangs out on your window except for the cases where you invite her in. How did you even find out she was missing anyway?"  
  
Natasha swallows. "We've been home for a week, and she always knows when I'm home. She usually waits at least a day before she starts prowling, but so far, she hasn't shown up at all."  
  
"And that's cause to call me at 3 a.m.?" Clint asks, raising an eyebrow as he swings his legs out of bed, already mentally trying to locate his clothes. "On Halloween?"  
  
"It's only been Halloween for three hours," Natasha returns firmly. "And yes." She pauses, and he can hear the change in her voice. "I don't have anyone else to call."  
  
Clint feels himself smile slightly at that, and hits the speakerphone button as he shoves his arms into a sweatshirt.  
  
"If I come over to join this search party, I'm bringing candy."  
  
\--  
  
Twenty minutes later, Clint shows up on Natasha's doorstep, ducking the mock slap once she registers the witches hat on top of his head.  
  
"Clint."  
  
"It's Halloween!" Clint protests, stepping inside. "And if I'm going to go on a search for a black cat, I'm going in style."  
  
"Clint," Natasha repeats, closing the door behind him. "I'm not going to search for Liho."  
  
Clint turns, confused. "So why did you even call me in the middle of the night? Why even suggest I come over?"  
  
Natasha shrugs, walking to the kitchen, where half a glass of wine is sitting in the sink. "When I come back from being away, she always knows when I need someone. She keeps me company." She finishes washing out the glass and puts it in the drying rack. "It makes me feel a little better, sometimes. But without her...I don't have anyone else."  
  
"You always said you didn't need anyone else," Clint reminds her gently as he comes up behind her, and Natasha nods.  
  
"That's what I like to tell people," she says in a voice that's almost resigned, turning around. Clint draws her into a hug, brushing one hand over the top of her head.  
  
"You've got me," he says quietly. "And I'll always know when you need someone, even when you say you don't."  
  
"You're a bad Hallmark card," Natasha says in a tight voice, and she tightens her arms around his body. Clint smiles.  
  
"Maybe. But I wouldn't let you accept anything less."


	19. clint/natasha :: i will find you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for **desertport** , for the be_compromised trick-or-treat comment fic-a-thon.

There is light, in her eyes and in her hair and on her feet, but Natalia - Natasha - Natalia doesn't slow her movements, not even when there is no more of it to guide her, to help her, to remind her. She finishes out her routine with one last slow turn, feeling the plastic band slide loosely out of her curly hair as she comes to a stop, closing her eyes against the dimming atmosphere and enveloping as much of herself as she can in darkness. In silence.  
  
In clapping.  
  
Natasha's eyes open instantly, her trained ears listening closely for what she's sure she's heard in the otherwise still room - the soft touch of hands moving against one another, a gentle yet hesitant show of affection for her (maybe not, she thinks, her heart pulsating against her chest as if it means to escape but no, it  _must_  be her, because there is no one else here, because there is no one else practices this late, because there is no one else that comes to this part of town, unless they are beggars or buyers or both.)  
  
She stands rigidly still, quiet breaths her only company, waiting for the presence of sound again, and when she spies him moving through the shadows and down the aisles of the otherwise deserted concert hall she is quite sure that she might be dreaming.   
  
"Natasha."  
  
The words are like a shock to the heart, a jolt of adrenaline that brings her almost to her knees, flashes of red and black and green and scepters and quinjets and nights where bodies turned blue in the absence of one another's skin and days in each other's arms with bad television and mismatched socks and the brush of lips against white teeth and that is who she is, not Natalia. _Natasha_.  
  
"Clint," she says quietly, holding out her hand as he ascends the stairs on the side of the stage. He meets her outstretched fingers, spinning her once slowly before drawing her to a halt against his chest.  
  
"I told you I would come home."


	20. clint/natasha :: halves to a whole

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for **Frea_O** , for the be_compromised trick-or-treat comment fic-a-thon.

You don't know her name, only that she is a terror wrapped in a horror wrapped in red, only that she has torched cities with her eyes and spilled blood with her teeth.

You don't know her name, only that she is quick with her knives and even quicker with her speed, only that she is a blur in motion that not even your best trick arrow can subdue, not even when you think you have her beat at every advantage.

You don't know her name, only that she is small and brittle and small and breaking beneath you, only that she is malnourished and feverish and shaking in your arms like an infant who doesn't know how to live in a brand new world.

You don't know her name, only that she is supposed to be a killer, only that she has names like "mother death" and "black widow" that reach far beyond the borders of Russia and Eastern Europe and even to the walls of your own workspace.

You don't know her name, only that she looks better when she smiles, only that she looks better with short hair than long hair, with red hair than black hair, with clothes on her back and shoes on her feet.

You don't know her name, except you do, because it is what you whisper when her lips touch your skin, returning you to your whole self for the first time since you remembered how to breathe.

 


	21. clint/natasha :: fire and ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for **crazy4orcas** , for the be_compromised trick-or-treat comment fic-a-thon.

There is fire in her blood. There is fire in her blood the same way there is fire in her hair, in the curve of her lips and in the way she twists your arm behind your head.

There is fire in her blood, but there is ice in your veins.

It is what you remember when you wake up, but not what you forget.

-

"There was fire in your blood," you tell her later, when she is next to you in bed and kissing the wounds on your body, lips soft against chaffed skin. Her mouth hovers over a particularly deep gash on your elbow, and she nods slowly.

"There was ice in yours."

It is a statement, a declaration, a part of the truth he is beginning to accept in between waking blue nightmares. You want to say more, that you've never seen her fight like that, that you've never seen her so determined, so visceral, so angry.

"I will always have fire for you," she says, the pad of her thumb a pressure point on his bottom lip. You look at eyes that threaten to break, two glaciers on the verge of melting, and you nod. 

Because you know that she will fight, and that she will stay, and that she will burn, until you are warm enough to hold her without the cold that threatens to consume you.

 


	22. clint/natasha :: to learn anew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for **sweetwatersong** and the prompt: _it's not a case of can and can't, it's a case of will and won't._

“Natasha.”

She feels his fingers before his voice reaches her ears, his breath hot against her neck, three single beats as he breathes out her name. She’s been waiting for this, for his words, for his consent, has stood in silence as he has stood still, bow hanging limply from one hand and arrow in the other.

“How did you get in?” She hears it, the catch in his throat, chooses to ignore the way she can see his chest rise and fall as if he’s afraid of the response.

As if he’s afraid of her.

“The same way I always do,” she replies, carefully stepping around a shattered glass bottle, the crystallized shards translucent in the dimming light of early dawn. She folds two arms, the cold cutting through her thin jacket, chilling muscles that are used to being so relaxed in his presence.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she continues and he doesn’t move, but manages to close the gap between them with his gaze, the silent understanding a connection deeper than anyone could guess.

“Me neither.”

It’s been three months, she knows, since he came back. Three months since they told him he would never shoot again, never walk again, never speak again. He’s defied the odds of his recovery, bounced back faster than a miracle would allow, and she hasn’t yet let herself understand how close she had come to losing him - hasn’t let herself appreciate how it feels to have him back, alive and whole and standing on his roof the way he used to so many times in the past, when he hasn’t known what to say or where to go.

She hears the words before he says them, as if they’re percolating in her own brain, as if she’s about to voice them herself. It’s not _I won’t do this_ , it’s _I can’t do this_ , and it’s not _I won’t fail_ , it’s _I can’t fail_. There’s a vice squeezing the air out of her lungs, a haze of emotion settling over her brain like a fine layer of dust, and she struggles to focus in the frosty air of morning.

“You can do this,” she says quietly because he is all she needs to bring herself back to the present. She doesn’t have to say it, she knows, but she does, because that’s who they are, they are support and hope, they are a light in the dark when the other can’t see past the veil blocking them. Clint raises his bow, puts the arrow between the strings and pulls back with trembling arms. Natasha reaches up out of instinct, wordlessly settling him, feeling the tension in his shoulders dissipate as he releases his fingers.

The arrow flies silently through the sky like a shooting star, like a beacon of hope, of light, of survival.


	23. clint/natasha :: and i will try to fix you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for **sweetwatersong** , who threw prompts at me until one stuck.

She sits on the grass just outside of the white tent, skinny legs crossed underneath a body that shakes far too much for her to be comfortable with, and if she hadn’t already marked her territory with this morning’s breakfast she thinks she might be sick.

Behind her, in voices so soft she can barely hear them, conversations waft in and out of the flaps of the tent like a breeze. She ignores as much as she can while simultaneously listening at the same time, picking out words that she can hold onto, that she can grasp without feeling like the world is spinning underneath her:  _Strong. Fracture. Recovery._  To ask how he is would be crossing a line that has been drawn invisible into the sand, orphaned assistants who slept on rags and worked for food didn’t deserve the right to know whether anyone in this business lived or died. But she had been there when he had fallen from his perch in the sky the same way a bird might fall with broken wings, had watched his body smack into the fairgrounds, had watched afterwards as he lay still and silent, so very unlike the brash, vivacious archer she had taken a liking to from the first time she snuck into a show.

“I know you’re out there, Romanoff,” and the words are like a gut punch that nearly send her into another spree of vomiting. There’s a louder rustling, then, movement as a larger man stops in front of her, and Natasha doesn’t stray from her spot on the ground as she cranes her neck up, straining to read the look on his blank face.

“He’s going to live. Go home.”

She nods, gets to her feet on shaking legs, pushes herself forward until she’s running, stumbling back towards her own tent, until she collapses into her makeshift bed. She finds herself wondering if the cold floor against her body is what he might have felt during his own accident, if it felt as uncomfortable as she feels now or if it was a relief. Or maybe he didn’t feel anything at all. 

 _He’s going to live_.

She breathes a little easier, the vice in her chest opening to allow a more relaxed contraction of her lungs, and falls asleep with his name on her lips.


	24. clint/natasha :: prelude to another life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for **sweetwatersong**...call it a prompt off a prompt

He stands at the cusp of the beach, the sand dark and coarse as it clumps between his toes at the points where water laps at his feet, inching closer and closer to his bare ankles. The stretch of tan that sprawls before him, endlessly vast where it curls into the distance, is nearly deserted in the presence of chilly April air; the umbrellas and bathing suits and lifeguards have long left their posts and by all accounts, Clint knows from the sign he’d seen when he maneuvered his way past the thin ropes, it’s been that way since the waning days of summer.

It’s the usual exchange in their partnership, reflex before recognition, silent small footprints making their indentations beside his own as she stops behind him and reaches forward with two arms, wrapping them around his waist. Like a spool unraveling at the smallest tug of a tightly-wound thread he feels his body relax, almost instantaneously, as if his bones are responding in some innate way against his will.

“You shouldn’t be out here,” she murmurs, her breath warm where it cuts through his thin teeshirt, and he doesn’t bother to tell her that he’s removed his aids before he left the beach house. He can hear her words, he can understand what she means by the way the words blend together and brush against his spine, crawling their way into his skin.  _You shouldn’t be out here alone._

“I wanted to give you space,” he says finally, unmoving, staring out at the sea that rolls and jolts with its own uneven pace. She smiles, and he feels her lips curve like a slow unfolding rainbow after a storm filled with too much darkness.

“I don’t need space,” and there’s tapping like a Morse code against his back as her fingers flex and relax and then become stationary, a palm firm and tight like an anchor as the sea threatens to pull him into its unforgiving grasp. He arches his neck slowly, taking in the deepening color of the sky as it kicks its hues from blue to orange.

_You’re not him anymore._

“I don’t know,” he says, turning around and she catches his hand in her own, running her fingers over the skin still ruined from battle, the scars from fighting and the cuts from the glass of the window he’d thrown himself through to survive, and the pinpricks from the IV of the hospital stay he’d vehemently protested until she laid down next to him in the bed, whispering her chants of reassurance. 

“I do,” she says, clutching his chin with her other hand so that he can read the words on her lips. 

“You keep this,” she continues slowly, moving his hand so that it rests on the space above her heart. “But you choose this.” She lifts her gaze, settling on the space above his eyes.

“I don’t know,” he says again, the words feeling like dead weight on his tongue. There are pieces of him scattered here, along this beach, the same way there had been pieces scattered in New Mexico, in the helicarrier, on the rooftop of the building he had defended until he couldn’t. There are fragments that are still breaking, sometimes he finds them when he wakes up at night, or when he dreams, or when she holds onto him, trying to put back together what she can, a puzzle that doesn’t have all the pieces.

“Take the pieces you want to keep.”  _Take me._  “The rest, it doesn’t matter.”  _Fuck the world._

He uncurls his fingers in her grasp, moving them into a familiar formation and she aligns her own accordingly, without hesitancy, pressing back against what he remembers is the first sign she ever learned. 

_I love you._

He’ll start with this, he’ll start with her, the biggest part that he can salvage, the part that he knows is true, a foundation for another beginning.

She’ll help him build the rest.


	25. clint/natasha :: connection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly cannot remember what this prompt was for at this point, but written for something on Tumblr.

She wonders how they got here sometimes, two broken bodies pushed against each other as if together, they can find a way to mend their respective hurt of their pasts, of their presents, of their futures. It should have been impossible, for her to allow him this much and for him to give her this much, and yet somehow, in a defiance of odds, they've beat the system and ended up here: two halves of a conjoined heart, one that beats the strongest when it has something to hold onto.

She feels his fingers crawl underneath her spine, the tips of his skin brushing feather-light against her own, knows that he hasn't missed the way she's moved in the hospital bed, and she thinks she may have forgotten that for all the metaphors they usually allow themselves she really is broken this time, bandaged and sore and held together by not her bones, but by the strength of his arms.  
  
He could be angry, she reasons, as she comes awake -- her last words before the shrill ticking of the bomb lapsed into silence, and then explosion, were things they both know they would never admit out loud unless circumstances demanded it. But she also knows that he won't be, that whatever he's probably felt in the time it's taken her to regain consciousness has since been replaced by something stronger, something more visceral.

  
 _You didn't tell me goodbye_ , he says when she opens her eyes, and she smiles through bruised skin, because she knows what he knows:

  
You don't tell people you love goodbye. Not when they have the power to heal you.


End file.
